“Well, you can’t do it when she’s nearby, and she’s been clinging to him all night. This may be your only chance.” And after watching him dance with that other Warlord Prince, she’d go mad if she couldn’t have Daemon soon.

Tavey looked scared, but he never could refuse her for very long. So he left the ballroom to deliver his little speech.

By the end of the evening, her beautiful love would be free to be with the one woman in the whole Realm who truly deserved to have him.

Hearing the parlor door open, Daemon slipped his hands into his trouser pockets to hide his wedding ring. He’d spent the past few minutes just staring at it, taking comfort in its presence. He’d almost regained his balance, but he wasn’t quite far enough away from the killing edge yet. He needed to find Jaenelle and tell her he couldn’t go through with their public quarrel. He couldn’t afford to have anything prick his temper right now.

As he turned toward the door, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the fireplace. His gold eyes were still glazed—the prelude to cold rage.

“You don’t want to be here,” he snarled softly as the Yellow-Jeweled Warlord slipped into the room and closed the door. “You really don’t want to be here.”

“I—” The Warlord swallowed hard. “I’m asking you to do the right thing.”

“And what is the right thing?” He glided toward the door, forcing the Warlord to sidle farther into the room to avoid getting close to him.

“We—We’re in love. We want to be together.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Jaenelle. Me. We’re in love. But she hasn’t wanted to say anything because . . .”

“Because?” Daemon asked too softly.

“She’s afraid of you.” The Warlord blurted out the words. “She doesn’t want to be with someone like you anymore.”

“Someone like me.” The words sliced his heart, inserted a tiny sliver of doubt. Then he rubbed his left thumb against his wedding ring.

If Jaenelle had fallen in love with someone else, she might not have told him until she felt capable of dealing with him. But she never would have married him, because she understood the nature of Warlord Princes better than anyone else could.

“You may be in love,” Daemon said, “but—”

“We’re lovers.”

His brain shut off, snuffing out control, shattering the illusion of civilized behavior. As he descended to the level of the Black, the cold, glorious Black, every thought, every feeling funneled through the lethal rage of a Warlord Prince.